


peace and quiet

by ThaliaClio



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Bathing/Washing, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Getting Together, Humor, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Pre-OT3, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Roach Loves Geralt, Roach and Jaskier Have a Bit of a Rivalry, Roach is a Dog in This, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It, djinn, look it's all very soft, the last chapter is mostly yennefer and jaskier aggressively flirting, with Geralt and each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:55:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22684330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThaliaClio/pseuds/ThaliaClio
Summary: Jaskier is still a musician, Geralt is still a Witcher, Yennefer is still a mage, and communication is still barely there.--“The wishes aren’t yours,” she says.“What?” Geralt grinds out with enough shock and anger for Jaskier as well. Jaskier can only flap his hands helplessly.“They're yours,” she says, gesturing to Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 31
Kudos: 695





	1. bad night

**Author's Note:**

> Only barely steampunk, really. Very soft boys and a kind of helpful Yennefer.  
> -  
> Written in three hours with no editing or research. I've only watched the show.

Jaskier strums his lute lightly, slumped uncomfortably against the headboard. He should fix his posture. He should take the herbs on the side table. 

“...toss a coin to y--” he erupts into a coughing fit, spitting blood into his palm to avoid getting it on the lute.

He looks at the clock, then remembers this isn’t his apartment and there is no clock, and looks out the window instead. The sun is low, just falling behind the building across the way, but not quite setting. Geralt has been gone for _hours_.

_“I’ll be back before nightfall -- I’m going to find someone who can help.”_

Stupid fucking djinn. Stupid fucking wishes. He still has one left and wonders if he shouldn’t just use that one to make this all go away. 

_“Don’t use the wish -- it’ll just piss the djinn of more. Take the herbs.”_

Jaskier eyeballs the pile of mashed, pungent herbs in the bowl on the table. He wrinkles his nose and takes another spoonful, trying desperately not to gag and spit them out. The evidence of his first attempt is drying on the floor now.

This time he succeeds and swallows, shuddering. He settles back again, ignoring the ache in his back in favor of the crushing, bleeding pain of his throat and continues strumming. A few chords later and the crushing, bleeding pan is merely aching and raw. His slump becomes a slouch and the lines between his brow smooth out, just a little. 

He thinks about this morning. About leaving the city, tired of the smog and the cars and the _noise_ , and going to the lake for a proper sulk after being dumped. 

Of course he wasn’t _really_ upset about that, not actually -- the Countess was lovely, but she thought his music was too _niche_ and wanted him to write songs about _her_ so her father could put them on the _fucking radio_ but he was an _artist_ and an _artist_ would only write about things that _inspired_ him. 

He maybe shouldn't have said those exact words, in retrospect.

He remembers stomping away from the path, annoyed by the couples taking romantic walks, by the vendors selling love potions and charms in the park, and stumbling across a very grumpy, very frantic Witcher. 

He drifts, floating, half-asleep --

_“Geralt! I thought you’d been called North? When did you get back? Oh, my dear fellow, you wouldn’t believe the_ **_morning_ ** _I’ve had. The Countess called my ballads about you terribly niche an--_

**_“Jaskier?!”_ **

He jolts up, nearly headbutting Geralt’s beautiful, dimpled chin. 

Geralt’s big hands are clasped a little too tightly on his shoulders, and his yellow eyes are wild, deep purple bags even deeper now. Clumped strands of bloody, tangled silver-white hair hang in front of his face.

Still half-asleep and in pain once again, Jaskier flails for a crusted clump of hair. Flakes of blood flutter off and onto his lute. And he’d been doing such a good job of not bleeding on it. 

Geralt settles a bit as Jaskier moves, hands unclenching and one going to feel lightly at his throat. 

“Most of it isn’t mine,” Geralt says when Jaskier gives the bloody hair a tug.

“About half of it is,” an unfamiliar female voice calls out from behind him. 

Geralt twists, and Jaskier can see the source now. A beautiful, _terrifying_ woman with purple eyes and covered in black lace. Jaskier tries to scoot away when she steps closer, but the hand Geralt left on his shoulder tightens and he stills.

“She’s a fr-- she can help,” Geralt says. “A mage.”

The woman scoffs, and removes elbow length purple and black lace gloves. Even her nails are filed to points and painted black. 

“I am Yennefer of Vengeberg,” she says, moving to sit on the side of the bed Geralt isn’t occupying. “And our mutual friend here has worked very hard to get me to help you with your little _problem._ ”

Jaskier tries to retort, and promptly begins coughing out his own lungs once again. Geralt eases him forward, letting the blood drip out of his mouth and into a bowl that seems to have appeared out of nowhere. His lute is no longer in his lap. He doesn’t know when he started missing time.

When he finishes and finally sits back up -- with Geralt’s surprisingly gentle help, granted -- Yennefer is staring at him. 

She reaches out with one delicate hand, the cold tips of her nails just barely touching the horrifying bulge on his neck. Her eyes flutter for a second before she pulls back and grins. 

“The wishes aren’t yours,” she says.

“ _What?_ ” Geralt grinds out with enough shock and anger for Jaskier as well. Jaskier can only flap his hands helplessly.

“They're yours,” she says, gesturing to Geralt. “What happened just before he was attacked? You said you two were arguing.”

Geralt freezes. “We both pulled on the bottle. Jaskier made two wishes. I said I just wanted peace and quiet.”

“Then you have two wishes left, Witcher,” Yennefer says, still smiling to herself. “Use them wisely.”

Geralt stares at Jaskier again, eyes wide and panicked once more.

She gets up and moves to leave the apartment, pausing at the door. “This still counts as my repayment.”

Geralt just grunts, wild eyes stuck on Jaskier's equally shocked face. 

The door clicks closed. For a moment neither of them moves.

“I wish the curse on Jaskier was undone.” 

A long, terrifying howl and a black shadow sweeps through the room. Jaskier finally, _finally_ takes in a full deep breath and doesn’t feel like a knife was just shoved in his throat. The shadow and howl fade slowly, leaving the walls rattling for a moment. 

Geralt’s head is hung low, face completely hidden behind his hair. 

Feeling much more himself -- why, he could do a jig, compose a song, could kiss Ger- _nope_ \-- he sits up slowly, watching Geralt. 

“You still have one wish,” he says slowly, cautious of his own throat and the man beside him. Something is wrong. 

“This was my fault,” Geralt snaps, head jerking up. He’s snarling, sharp teeth bright against his split lip and bloody face. 

If Jaskier didn’t know him half as well, he’d think Geralt was angry. As it stands, he knows Geralt _very_ well, and he thinks Geralt might be about to cry. 

Maybe he did learn something today, Jaskier thinks to himself as he waits, choosing silence over words as he watches the muscles in Geralt’s jaw tic.

With a growl Geralt shoves himself away from the bed and paces the room, fists clenching and unclenching at his side. 

“What did Yennefer want for her help?” Jaskier asks.

It’s not what he really wants to know, not really, but he needs to know all the same. There's a reason Geralt is bloody, and he suspects it's the same reason Yennefer came.

“A bruxa was eating her customers,” Geralt says shortly. 

Jaskier swings his legs over the side and stands, slowly. Geralt stops pacing and watches him warily. He walks across the room on shaky legs until he’s beside Geralt again. When he sweeps some of the hair off Geralt’s shoulder, where the blood is thickest, Geralt flinches, just a little. There’s a deep chunk torn out of his trapezius, scabbed over and more healed than any human would be after mere hours. Still, it’s _bad_.

“I see she got one more meal before her demise,” he says softly. 

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, and that muscle in his jaw jumps again when Jaskier sweeps a thump gently over the unbroken skin below the bite. He moves his hand to cup the back of Geralt’s neck and guides him back to the bed. To his surprise, or maybe not, Geralt comes easily. 

Jaskier pushes Geralt to sit, and again he goes easily. Jaskier stays quiet when he leaves the room to get another bowl for water and a clean cloth. When he comes back in, Geralt still hasn’t moved. 

“I need to tie back your hair to clean it,” Jaskier says softly, almost a whisper.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, evidently exhausted by the unusual amount of words he’d used earlier. 

He doesn’t flinch this time when Jaskier touches him, first to tie back his hair, then to gently run the damp cloth over the bite. The blood comes off slowly, most of it dry by now, but the wound itself still oozes. The tension in Geralt’s jaw and shoulders loosens with each sweep of the cloth. Jaskier doesn’t move except to drop the rag when the blood is gone from his shoulder, the wound as clean as it can be for now. 

It looks worse. _Geralt_ looks worse. Slumped, bloody, bruised, and so very tired. Jaskier puts his hand on the back of his neck again, thumb sweeping over the short hairs at the nape, and Geralt shudders.

“When did you last sleep?” Jaskier whispers. 

“Seven days ago,” Geralt rumbles, eyes still closed and head listing forward. “I can’t... Hmm.”

Jaskier barely, just barely, keeps himself from reacting.

Meletile’s tits, _seven days_. No wonder he was so brittle this morning. 

“Okay,” he says, voice still soft. “Can we get you to the bath?” Any other day, and the words would be pouring out of him, thrilled at the company, at having his voice back, but now -- now he feels like a spell has been cast and silence is the only way not to break it. 

He guides Geralt up with that same hand at the back of his neck and into the attached bathroom, low-bound hair falling over his knuckles. He pushes Geralt onto the toilet and turns on the faucet, watching steam rise from the claw foot tub for a moment. He pours in lavender oil and salts, waiting until it’s half full before turning back. Geralt still hasn’t opened his eyes, but has fallen to his elbows, hands barely propping his chin up. 

“C’mon,” Jaskier coaxes, tugging at the laces of Geralt’s ruined tunic. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says, eyes opening to tiny slits. 

He’s mostly unhelpful with getting himself undressed, movements uncharacteristically clumsy and slow. Geralt is never bashful, and Jaskier likes looking, but he doesn’t look now, not like that. Geralt is soft. Vulnerable. 

In the large tub, half hidden by bubbles, Geralt’s eyes slip closed again. Jaskier moves to pour water gently over his hair, running soap and then oils through it and brushing it until all the knots come loose. The blood comes off his skin and out of his hair, and Jaskier drains and refills the tub. Time stretches like taffy, and Jaskier doesn’t know how long they’ve been there, but Geralt’s fingers are wrinkled like dried dates on the edge of the tub. 

“Bed,” Jaskier says, the first word spoken since Geralt got in the water. 

Geralt nods, eyes still closed, and doesn’t even hum as Jaskier drains the water and hands him the largest, fluffiest towel he could find. Jaskier wraps a smaller one around his still dripping hair and helps him out and back into the room. It’s dark now, sun set long ago, and only the stars and the glowing gas lights outside keep the room dim rather than pitch black.

Geralt nearly collapses on the bed, and Jaskier thinks _vulnerable_ again. He’s never, ever associated that words with Geralt, not once in the ten years they’ve known one another. But here, now, with Geralt wrapped in fluffy white towels, half-asleep, and fuzzy with blood loss and exhaustion, it’s the only thing he can think of. 

“Lay down,” Jaskier says.

Geralt shakes his head, eyes just barely opening again. “Nightmares.”

_Oh._

“I’ll lay with you,” he says instead of asking _W_ _hy? Of what? What could you possibly be so afraid of that you don’t sleep for a week?_

“Hmm,” Geralt says, but he lays down.

Jaskier lays down beside him, arms just barely touching, stares at the ceiling, and tries very hard to think of anything but this. 

After a minute or maybe an hour, Geralt rolls onto his side. The towel in his hair has fallen off, the the still damp strands fall over his face as he snuggles -- _snuggles_ \-- into Jaskier’s shoulder. Moving slowly, giving Geralt all the time he needs to move -- gods, but Jaskier doesn’t even know if Geralt is _asleep_ \-- Jaskier shifts so that one of his arms is under Geralt’s neck and he can curl his hand around to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair. 

Geralt shifts closer, a low, content _purr_ rumbling in his chest. 

“What will your third wish be, I wonder?” Jaskier breathes, thinking aloud to himself. 

“Don’t need it now,” Geralt mutters into his shirt. “Happy here.”

_Oh_ , Jaskier thinks.

They’ll talk in the morning, probably. About the djinn, about the last wish that must still be used, about _this._

But for now, tonight, Jaskier closes his eyes and dreams of nothing at all.


	2. good morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Not quite so quiet, nor so peaceful, but lovely all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess it's a two-shot now?  
> \--  
> Still no editing. Still no research.

Jaskier wakes up to the smell of coffee and pork. 

He wrinkles his nose, not yet opening his eyes, and flails for a body he hopes is still there. Hand meeting nothing but _(still warm)_ sheets, he finally deigns to open his eyes. He’s alone in the bed _(not his bed, whose bed?_ **_Geralt’s_ ** _bed)_ and is suddenly much more awake than he normally would be ten seconds after opening his eyes. 

Then sound filters in.

Soft sizzling. A gentle thump-thump. A muffled voice. Jaskier twists and sits up slowly, leaning to peer out the bedroom into the kitchen.

Roach, Geralt’s wholly unnatural, big-as-a-pony, too smart, very possessive dog _(what do you_ **_mean_ ** _that’s a dog Geralt? That’s a wolf! A-a direwolf! Crossed with a horse! And a dragon for all I know!)_ is sitting very nicely and wagging her tail beside the stove as Geralt sneaks her pieces of fried meat.

He can just barely hear Geralt whispering as he scratches her ears.

“Getting soft, old girl. Next thing you know I’ll be hunting your dinner too.” When she whines lowly he sighs and tosses her another piece. "Yes, thank you for guarding the door yesterday."

The sheets must make a noise, as slowly and carefully as he’s moving, because both her and her owner _(although Jaskier knows both Geralt and Roach very much object to that title)_ turn to look at him. Their twin stares are deeply unsettling and he’s very happy he’s still in his clothes, unlike when he usually wakes up in unfamiliar beds. 

“Good morning?” he offers, clearly caught awake and not sure what to say. Roach snorts, as unimpressed with him as usual. 

He remembers all of last night. He wonders if Geralt does. If Geralt remembers snuggling, saying _happy here,_ falling asleep in one another’s arms.

That Geralt hasn’t left and is making food isn’t actually a sign either way. Emotionally dull and constipated and recalcitrant he may be, but rude and cruel he is not. Usually. Without decent-ish reason. 

“Hmm,” Geralt responds, turning back to the sizzling pan. Roach continues to stare. “Breakfast is nearly ready. You should eat.”

Jaskier slides out of bed and into the kitchen, keeping a wary eye on the Witcher. Jaskier himself is in the same soft shirt and cotton pants he changed into when Geralt first took him to his apartment, after… after the lake. They smell like Geralt and are much too big on him, and now seems like the first time Jaskier is really appreciating that. It may be due to Roach giving him a suspicious sniff before leaning back and growling.

Geralt, on the other hand, is clad in only cotton pants. Jaskier is slightly grateful and equally resentful that he didn’t keep last night’s towel on. 

“I am hungry, thank you,” he says, sliding around the island counter to lean on his elbows and stare down at the sizzling meat. “How do you not burn yourself on the oil with no shirt on?” he asks, watching a shimmering drop shoot into the air with a _pop_.

“I don’t even notice,” Geralt responds. “Inconsequential.”

That in itself is unusual. Geralt responding to an inane question, that is. Not Geralt ignoring “inconsequential” pain. _(Or so says he. But he’s also called a half-severed finger “inconsequential”.)_

“I slept great, thank you,” he says when Geralt seems disinclined to continue responding. “Throat feels good as new.”

Geralt tenses sharply at that, and Roach erupts into a ferocious growl until Geralt makes a motion with his hand and she stops. She keeps a dark eye on Jaskier, though. He thinks he might prefer the growl.

“I am…” Geralt stares down at the pan. His knuckles are white on the spatula. Between the threads of hair Jaskier can see the muscle in his jaw jump.

“Hey,” he breathes, leaning over to put a hand over Geralt’s. “It’s-- I know you didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and seems to go impossibly tighter, muscles so tense he’s trembling under Jaskier’s hand. 

“You almost _died,_ ” Geralt’s voice breaks on the last word, and Jaskier realizes he was right last night. Those are tears he sees darkening the edges of Geralt’s lashes. 

“Hey, hey hey,” he babbles, stumbling around the counter to stand in front of Geralt and grab both his arms. He trips over Roach, but for once she doesn’t growl at him and instead shifts her paws to let him step toe to toe with Geralt. 

“I’m okay. It’s fine -- I’m fine!”

His hands move frantically up Geralt’s arms until they reach his face, gently tilting his chin until he can force Geralt to meet his eyes. It takes a second for Geralt to open them, but eventually he does. 

“I’m fine,” he repeats. “You fixed me. I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault, i-it was dumb fa--”

And suddenly he can’t talk because his mouth is covered by another mouth. Geralt’s mouth. Geralt’s very soft and warm mouth. His lips are dry but not chapped. After a second, though, Jaskier tastes salt and he pulls away.

Geralt really _is_ crying.

“No, no no, nononono,” Jaskier stammers, hands fluttering at Geralt’s cheeks, his hair. “Don’t cry on me -- this is our first kiss, I’ve been looking forward to this for _years_ , please don--”

And he’s cut off again, but this time it’s by a tight bear hug. Crushed against a very large, very muscular chest. Geralt’s chest.

Geralt buries his face in the joint between Jaskier’s shoulder and his neck. After a moment Jaskier’s shock fades and his still upright, fluttering hands settle, one on Geralt’s back, one carding gently through his hair. They may seem different, size wise, but he’s actually only a few inches shorter, though a good deal less broad. He’s thankful for the height right now.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt mutters into his shirt. “I can’t lose you.”

Jaskier breathes in and exhales, slow and steady. This feels like last night, special and important and delicate. But this -- this requires words. Luckily his voice is healed and words are very much his specialty. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers. “I never wanted to before, and if you think that’s even on the table anymore now that I know _kissing_ is an option, well -- I’m just. No. Not happening.”

Yes, words. His specialty.

But --

Geralt barks out a laugh, big chest jumping sharply against his own and a warm puff of breath on his collarbone. 

Geralt pulls back, and there’s no trace of the tears Jaskier knows he saw, but he won’t mention them again. Not today. Maybe years later, when they’re both old and comfortable and he gets to tell silly stories about how they got together to strangers. 

Jaskier leans in to kiss him first this time, but Geralt meets him easily. The kiss stays chaste until Jaskier runs the hand that was carding through Geralt’s hand over the nape of his neck. Then Geralt can’t seem to help himself but to open his mouth to a moan, and Jaskier has never thought himself a good man so of course he swallows the sound into his own mouth, licking into Geralt. 

He tastes like ham, mostly, and for some reason that makes Jaskier smile. 

They break apart, both wearing soft, wondrous smiles. Suddenly Geralt frowns, eyes flicking, and just as Jaskier opens his mouth to tell him to _stop brooding and fucking kiss me ag--_

“I think I love you,” Geralt says. 

_Oh._

Jaskier blinks up at him, dumbfounded just long enough for Geralt to start pulling away. “Nonono-- I love you. I _definitely_ love you.”

Geralt freezes and the frown turns back into a smile. Jaskier thinks he might be getting another kiss but Roach promptly shoves her giant, big-toothed, terrifying head between them and very effectively separates the two. Jaskier pouts while Geralt snorts and smiles and grabs a piece of mostly cooked bacon and tosses it to her.

“Why doesn’t Roach like me again?” He asks sulkily. “And why does she get breakfast first?”

Geralt is still smiling, and Jaskier’s chest might just burst when he runs a big, calloused hand over Jaskier’s cheek before dropping it to stir the pan again.

“You like your bacon crispy,” he says. “Roach likes hers mostly raw.”

Oh, yeah -- that is in fact Jaskier’s chest bursting. _Geralt knows how I like my bacon cooked_.

“That doesn’t actually answer my first question.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt answers. 

He pulls the pan off the stove top, scooping the very crispy bacon onto a plate. There’s no fire under it.

“Did you use magic to make me breakfast?”

If Geralt could blush, Jaskier thinks he very much would be.

“There’s no firewood here.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums around a crispy, crunchy, _perfect_ piece of bacon, equal parts response and indecent moan. Geralt watches his mouth and doesn’t blink until he swallows, and isn’t that a power trip all its own. “And where is here, exactly? I thought you hated the city.”

“Kaer Morhen keeps safe houses in every major city these days,” Geralt responds, brain clearly on autopilot. He’s watching Jaskier lick the grease off his lips. “More cities means less wilderness means monsters have nowhere else to go.”

“You are… surprisingly talkative this morning,” Jaskier says cautiously, hip propped up against the counter as he continues eating. 

“Maybe you’re contagious,” Geralt says, startling a laugh out of Jaskier. 

“Speaking of contag-- no, bad segue,” Jaskier cuts himself off, setting down the half finished plate with a smidgen of regret. “But you still have one more wish.”

Geralt’s smile fades at that, and now Jaskier feels more than a smidgen of regret. He reaches out instinctively, grabbing one of Geralt’s hands and running his thumb over the knuckles. Geralt stares at it for a long while and doesn’t answer. 

“Why did you tell me not to use my last wish?” Jaskier asks. Geralt seems inclined to answer questions, at least.

“Djinn… once they’re free they often take revenge on the wisher,” he murmurs, still watching Jaskier’s thumb sweep over his own scarred knuckles. “Even I couldn’t protect you from that.”

Worry sits like a heavy pit in his stomach, stirring up the bacon uncomfortably. He squeezes Geralt’s hand, and Geralt squeezes back. 

“I can’t lose you either, you know,” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt does look up at that. He reaches out with his free hand and cups Jaskier’s cheek again. 

“You won’t,” Geralt swears. “I think I know what to wish for.”

Before Jaskier can so much as open his mouth to protest, Geralt releases his hand and steps back.

“I wish my djinn were released to their own realm, never to return,” he announces, deep voice projecting unnaturally through the room.

The same shriek, the same shadow sweep through the room. Roach erupts into a terrifying growl, hackles raised, and backs towards Geralt. After a moment the walls stop rattling and absolutely nothing happens. 

Jaskier removes hands he didn’t realize he had raised from his ears and opens eyes he didn’t realize he had closed. Geralt twists an arm and watches a third bloody slash join to others. Roach whines and goes to lick at it at the exact same moment Jaskier lunges to grab his arm. She accidentally licks Jaskier instead and promptly retches. 

_Rude_ , Jaskier thinks even as he gently takes Geralt’s arm in his hands.

“They don’t hurt,” Geralt offers. “Not even a scratch -- just a mark.”

Which, speaking of -- Jaskier releases one hand to sweep back Geralt’s hair and get a better look at his shoulder. A small divot in the muscle and a red, angry scar. Both will be even more faded by day’s end, he knows. Jaskier lets himself slump against Geralt’s chest.

“Don’t scare me like that,” he mutters, half angry, half serious. “ _Please_.”

For a moment Geralt seems frozen, but then he moves, wrapping Jaskier in another bear hug. This one is just as warm and just as welcome, but softer, less desperate.

“I will try very hard not to,” he says into Jaskier’s hair. 

Given that Geralt is a Witcher, and a stupidly noble one at that, it’s really all Jaskier can ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might actually be a series?


	3. lovely afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer comes back while Geralt is gone and Jaskier is alone. Surprisingly, they get along.

Jaskier likes talking. He likes the way words and songs feel in his mouth, spilling from his lips. He likes the way women swoon at a beautiful, sweet line and the way men laugh at a clever, often raunchy, turn of phrase. He likes listening, too. The way men and women alike whisper secrets into his skin; the way a child very seriously shares the truths of the universe.

Geralt certainly doesn’t like talking, and he claims to not like listening either. Jaskier knows he’s a lying liar who lies. 

Geralt knows how he likes his bacon cooked. They’ve never eaten bacon together, and Jaskier has only complained about an old girlfriend’s method of cooking once.

He crunches thoughtfully and stares at a blank wall. 

_“I have to talk to the alderman. See if there’s any work in this city.”_ Geralt had hesitated then. 

_“I’d like to stay. Here. With you.”_

It had taken some time for Geralt to actually leave after that, Roach in tow again, and now Jaskier was alone in the “safe house” eating cold bacon. 

“Geralt!”

Oh _shit_. 

“When were y-- oh it’s you.” 

None other than Yennefer of Vengerberg, who Jaskier had only met once while dying and was mortally terrified of, had just barged into what Geralt had assured him to be a very secure, protected _safe_ house.

“Put that down.”

Jaskier realized he had leapt to his feet and was currently brandishing a broken piece of bacon. 

“It’s crispy enough to be sharp,” he defended petulantly even as he sat back down. “How in the name of every god there ever was and will be did you get in here?”

“If there ever were any gods, they’re long since dead, and if any new ones are brave enough to pop up, I’ll eat their heart raw.”

For a beat it’s so quiet Jaskier can hear his own heartbeat.

“That is… graphic.” He pauses. Takes another bite of the very threatening bacon in his hand. “Someone’s very sure of themselves. Killing gods and all.”

Yennefer scoffs at him and drops onto the weathered leather couch in the main room, the only furniture in there. Her dress of silk ripples and rolls, shimmering shades of black and purple and blue, as it settles incongruously against the cracked brown leather. 

“I’m 400 years old, bard,” she says. “I’m older than most religions, let alone their gods.”

Jaskier stops chewing. Peers at her. She raises one perfect black eyebrow and not a trace of crows feet.

“How long have you known Geralt?” He asks, abandoning the rather terrifying train of conversation they had been on. Somehow he thinks she might actually be able to kill a god.

“Two centuries or so?” she offers, waving a hand vaguely. 

Jaskier thinks about that too. He’s known Geralt for a little over ten years and has never once heard him mention Yennefer.

“I don’t expect he’s ever talked about me,” she says, _like a mind reader._ “No, I’m not reading your mind. Not right now, at least.”

She outright laughs at his expression, and it’s the most approachable she’s looked in their entire, very short association. Terrifying still, yes, but because anyone that beautiful is terrifying. 

“I don’t need to,” she says, still grinning. “Your face is very easy to read.”

He chooses to not pursue that line of questioning either. Geralt would be impressed by his focus, he’s sure. “Why would Geralt not have mentioned you?”

“Every decade or so we switch between enemies and allies,” she says casually. “Haven’t tried to kill each other in the past 50 years, though.” She stops. Smirks at him. “Haven’t slept together in the past 10.”

Jaskier thinks his eye twitches. 

“And you are… allies right now?”

“I suppose,” she waves a hand with a glass of wine he’s sure wasn’t there a second ago. It’s so red it’s almost purple. “Not actively fighting, at least.”

Jaskier frowns deeply. “Just taking advantage when the other is desperate?”

“We agreed on a deal. He held up his end.”

“You didn’t really do much on yours,” he snaps. 

Yennefer stares at him, purple eyes flashing and he’s reminded that she is in fact a four hundred year old mage. Then she smiles.

“You’re a brave one, aren’t you?” She smirks around her glass.

“Geralt would say I’m a foolish one.”

She scoffs again. “Geralt is a five hundred year old fool with the emotional awareness of a teaspoon.”

“He told me he loved me,” Jaskier says without thinking.

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Even I knew that. He really did work very hard to save your life.”

Jaskier’s brain skids to a halt. He knows he’s staring into the middle distance, eyes wide like a hare caught in a trap. He forces himself to inhale and then reaches for another piece of bacon. 

“They’re gone,” he says mournfully, wide eyes now fixed on his empty plate.

“You ate them rather quickly,” Yennefer says. 

Jaskier turns back to glare at her. “When Geralt gets back he’ll make me more. I’m his favorite.”

Yennefer scoffs. “You’re cute.”

“Who’s cute?”

They both jerk to look at the door, now open and filled with six feet of burly, handsome Witcher with a sword drawn but now loosely held and Roach crouched and growling beside him. He looks suspiciously between the two of them for another beat before sheathing it. Roach's fur settles and she straightens, but keeps a suspicious eye on Yennefer.

Jaskier feels vindicated.

“Me.” Jaskier grins, leaving the safety of the kitchen counter now that _his_ favorite person has arrived. 

He hesitates for a split second, but only barely, and tilts his chin to kiss Geralt on the cheek, letting his lips linger on the warm skin, the soft scratch of a beard trying to grow back.

Geralt _shudders_.

Roach bumps his leg, separating them much more gently than before, and Jaskier pulls back with a grin. He just barely catches Yennefer tossing back the rest of her wine and vanishing the glass out of the corner of his eye.

“Mmm,” Geralt hums. After much longer than a split second, he flutters his eyes open. When he catches Jaskier’s smiling gaze, he blushes.

“Yennefer,” he finally says, voice _almost_ normal. “Why are you here?”

“What no lovely greeting for me?” she says, drifting from the couch to the door. “It’s been _years,_ darling.”

She reaches out with one sharp black nail, intent on stroking Geralt’s cheek or chin or _chest,_ and Jaskier doesn’t think at all this time and steps in between them at the same time Roach barks. He's never felt more solidarity with her than this moment.

Yennfer stops and grins. “A brave one indeed.”

Geralt sighs and puts a heavy hand on Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier _almost_ shudders too, but manages to steel his spine and just looks embarrassingly besotted instead. Yennefer winks at him before spinning to walk back into the living room. 

“Good to know you two are getting along so well,” Geralt huffs as he steers Jaskier into the kitchen. Roach breaks off to claim her throne on the couch, curling up facing the kitchen so as to best keep an eye on everyone at once. 

Someone who didn’t know him better might have taken it for sarcasm. Jaskier and Yennefer meet one another’s eyes, though, and he knows she can hear the relief there too because _fond_ is the only way to describe her gaze. He doesn’t care to know how she would describe his, but he’s pretty sure _embarrassingly besotted_ still covers it.

Geralt, of course, misses this entire exchange of secret looks, as his head is currently in the icebox. Roach doesn't, huffing judgmentally from the couch. He emerges with a pack of uncut bacon and a loaf of bread. 

Jaskier sticks his tongue out of Yennefer. 

Geralt casts _Igni_ to heat the pan again, still oblivious to the childish staring match going on beside him.

“Now why are you here, Yennefer?” Geralt asks, cutting at the meat and laying the strips down with a sharp sizzle. 

Yennefer smirks. “Oh purely a social call, I assure you. Just _checking in._ ”

Geralt grunts and takes half the strips off the heat, still soft and _blech_ and plates them, sliding the plate to Yennefer. He adds a few more and casts _Igni_ on the pan again.

Yennefer sticks her tongue out at Jaskier while Geralt’s head is bowed, floppy piece of bacon in one hand.

“Hmm,” Geralt says. He reaches for the loaf and saws off a hunk of bread. He chews for a moment, and when he answers there’s still food in his mouth. Jaskier finds himself feeling unbearably fond. 

“You’ve checked.”

Yennefer finishes her bite before answering, rolling her eyes. She sighs and for a moment looks almost uncomfortable.

“I saw the Bruxa’s head at the alderman’s. There was skin between her teeth, and I could smell your blood in her mouth, like copper and rotting meat." She swallows and looks down, hand fidgeting with her bacon. "You didn’t tell me you were bitten. I thought it was a scratch.”

Geralt plates Jaskier’s very crispy bacon for him as Yennefer talks. He spares a second to consider whether or not he’s actually disgusted by her graphic description, remembers the time he saw Geralt eat a leg of lamb while covered in selkimore guts, and takes a large bite.

The crunch is very loud in the silence of what Jaskier assumes is an uncharacteristically emotional confession. 

Now it’s Geralt’s turn to look unbearably fond. 

“I’m alright, Yenn,” he says softly. Then he turns to Jaskier, and the softness is all for him. “Jaskier took excellent care of me.”

Jaskier beams and presses another, slightly greasy, kiss to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “Anytime.”

“Well this was wonderful, thank you for breakfast,” Yennefer says suddenly. Geralt’s head jerks toward her, brow furrowed as he watches her back towards the door. “I have a new client coming in in an hour, and I just wanted to be sure you hadn’t bled out on your disgusting couch.”

Roach raises her head for a beat and lets out a short warning growl. She keeps her eyes on Yennefer.

Geralt steps toward her, and Jaskier lets him. He watches curiously as Yennefer freezes at the door, almost waiting for Geralt. 

“Thank you,” he rumbles softly. She nods, head tilted to meet his eyes and one hand on the door.

Geralt turns to look at Jaskier, a question in his eyes. Jaskier nods, decisive. He’d give Geralt anything he wanted, everything he wanted, if he could.

Geralt grabs one of her hands, holding it loosely. “Jaskier makes very good pie.”

He swallows and looks lost. Yennefer looks like she’s about to bolt. Geralt looks at him again, begging instead of questioning.

“Geralt likes the venison and potatoes one, but I’ve always been a fan of sweet things.” Jaskier takes mercy on these two ancient, emotionally constipated idiots. “Perhaps you’d like to cast your vote on which is better tomorrow night.”

Yennefer smiles, bright and surprised, and Jaskier is surprised again by how much a real smile softens her terrifying edges. 

“Tomorrow evening, then,” she says, looking at Jaskier with an unreadable but unmistakably pleased expression. Then she leans up on her tip-toes and presses a kiss to the same corner of Geralt’s lips. She licks her lips, still looking at him.

When the door clicks closed behind her, Geralt doesn’t move for a long second. Then he’s back across the room in three long strides and Jaskier is in the air and in his arms. He flails and most certainly does not squeal, eventually settling his hands on Geralt’s shoulder to balance. He can just barely hear Roach get up from the couch, but he definitely feels her cold wet nose digging into his belly as she valiantly tries to separate them again. 

“I love you,” Geralt says into the cotton of his shirt, breath warm through the fabric.

Jaskier moves one hand to scratch at Geralt’s scalp and savors the full body shiver that follows. “And I love you.”

He looks down at Roach, now sitting petulantly and pouting up at Geralt. Geralt laughs, freeing one hand to scratch at her ears, and Jaskier's brain explodes a little, two all-encompassing thoughts bouncing off of one another -- _Geralt can hold me up with one hand ohmygods this is the hottest thing I've ever experienced_ and _Geralt is **beautiful** when he laughs._

Geralt looks back at him, smirking a little, and Jaskier just _knows_ he's about to be a little shit.

"Y'know, Roach is actually my favorite."

Jaskier refuses to admit he squawked at that, but can't deny that he melts against Geralt again when a smiling kiss is pressed to his open mouth.

The next kiss is soft and warm, and Jaskier finds himself very excited about the prospect of future kisses. As Geralt carries him back to the bedroom, he also, inexplicably, finds himself thinking about making a gooseberry pie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end?

**Author's Note:**

> Thought this was a one shot. It's not.


End file.
